


Ashtray

by walkamongstthestars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt, possible implied romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkamongstthestars/pseuds/walkamongstthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock", he'd say, "all I've got now is the ashtray you stole for me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashtray

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a ficlet written by Nili, or winterinthetardis.tumblr.com.
> 
> All rights to the phrase go to her.

Sometimes it sat on the mantel. Sometimes it sat on John's nightstand. And then other times it got shuffled into a corner of the room under papers, usually with the quiet judgment of Mrs. Hudson, only to later be dug up by desperate hands, one trembling slightly. The hands would run along the ribbed edges, feeling the cool, reflective surface. The mirror image of the hands would be distorted by the rounded curves. 

 

It still smelled like him.

 

Occasionally, it smelled like John, too. But more often, it smelled like him. It smelled like the dark, heavy threads holding together rough, sometimes burdensome fabric. It smelled of his cigarettes - how was that even possible? But then, how it could smell of anything besides tobacco ash was a mystery in itself. 

 

But it did - it did smell like so much more. 

 

Behind the bitter, smokey haze it seemed to emit was the sigh of breath, the taste of those lips, the hint of cologne, and it was all utterly illogical.

 

Logic. That was one of those things, wasn't it? For the world's most observational, logical man, Sherlock had failed to be able to apply logic to John, and vice versa. And now when John clutched that ashtray, clutched it as though it was the only thing he had left, sitting with the weight of it all in his chair, he felt an overwhelming presence of Sherlock. He would feel Sherlock's hot breath on his neck from when he would lean over John to spy on his blog; he could see the soft, errant curls bobbing up and down as Sherlock strode beside him. He could hear that deep, rumbling voice rattling off infuriating deductions about John, about Mrs. Hudson, about the random stranger on the street. It made John so angry. He was so angry that Sherlock wasn't there to deduce him. He was so angry that Sherlock wasn't there to flop down, bored, in the opposite chair, pick up his violin and scratch out some sinfully sweet melody. God, but did John miss that sound.

 

He let his finger tips glide over the outside of the tray, flipping it in the air as Sherlock had. He tried to remember everything about that day; tried to remember everything about being helicoptered into Buckingham Palace where his best friend sat without clothes. _Jesus, Sherlock_ , John would have chuckled, _you can't keep doing that._ Sherlock would have raised his eyebrows at John and shrugged, yet again bored. 

 

John kept trying to piece together every detail. The feeling of the cushions he had sat on, the air between him and Sherlock, the smell of the over-adorned rooms of the palace. He tried to imagine the feel of the cab ride, when the tires would hit a bump and there would be a jolt; tried to remember the smile that formed on Sherlock's face, the proud chuckle he let out when John showed his own amusement. He tried to remember every time Sherlock had smiled and laughed like that. Just for John. John hadn't realized it, of course, but that all was just for him. 

 

Now, of course, John didn't laugh like that, much. He lived his life. He went to the pub with Mike. Occasionally he went with Greg, if he was desperate. The man still blamed himself, so it was hard to be around him. But John did all those things. He still worked at surgery. Sometimes Sarah would check up on him. She never pushed him, though. And even now that he had an unadulterated chance, he didn't want to date. It would have been easy. But then, there was something about that which seemed so empty and lonely now. 

 

So, instead, John would shift the ashtray back and forth through his fingers, smiling distantly, reconstructing memories. Sometimes he would talk. It was silly. But people do silly things. He'd say mundane things, ask random questions Sherlock might normally have scoffed at. _Did you get milk?_ Of course not, Sherlock would reply. John would laugh and shake his head. _Just try not to break too many of our good dining plates with your experiment._ Oh, John, you are so very tolerant, Sherlock would say with an over-enthusiastic smile. _Sherlock, you can't keep shooting the walls._ Well, you took away my cigarettes, what was I supposed to do? Sherlock would sulk.

 

Cigarettes.

 

John would then lick his lips and clear his throat, sniffling softly.

 

 _Sherlock_ , he'd say, _all I've got now is the ashtray you stole for me._

 

There would be silence.

 

But then once in a while he'd hear it.

 

No, John. Don't be absurd. It's more than that.

 

Then the ashtray would go back on the mantel, beside the skull, and John would go to make two cups of tea.


End file.
